The Harem is a collective of fans of the long-overlooked female supporting characters of The X Files.

We have a community on LiveJournal for topical discussion. That's our primary meeting point. We also have a fairly comprehensive fiction archive. However, it is not up to date. Fiction posted since the end of the series may not be present or catalogued. The creator of the Harem, Deslea, is not active in X Files fandom anymore, but still hosts the database and will work with volunteers to get newer stories up on request.

It isn't the first out-of-context thing Shannon has said
tonight, and he doubts it will be the last. The music is
smooth, the lights are low, the wine is aged, and Knowle
is agreeably mellow.

"I'll bite," he says, turning onto his side to face her.
"What about it?"

She leans past him to pour more wine, passing within a
hair's breadth of him. Flickering light glances off
glossy black hair, touching it with amber. He thinks if
things were different he might try to kiss her. It's
that sort of an evening. They're young, no ties, and
she's beautiful.

"It was made sixty years ago by Rudolph Boysen," she
says. "Part raspberry, part blackberry, part
loganberry."

"A hybrid."

She nods. "Like us."

"We're not hybrids yet," he reminds her. "It might not
work."

"And on that charming thought," she says, "I think I'll
get some more wine." She gets to her feet (bare, he
notes, he loves bare feet) and makes her way, a little
unsteadily to the kitchen.

"So why are you doing it?" he calls out to her after a
moment.

Her face appears in the hutch opening. "I'm dying," she
says matter-of-factly.

"Let me guess. They found it in the physical after we
got back from Lebanon."

"I didn't even know men could get breast cancer," she
says, openly curious, then goes back to whatever she's
doing in there.

"Neither did I. Found out the hard way."

More clattering sounds. Familiar curse words as she
grapples with the corkscrew. He bites back a grin. "So
did they bother to operate?"

He shakes his head. "I was drafted the same day."

"Recruited," she corrects, but she stops grappling with
the bottle to smile at him through the hutch.

"Right. And wouldn't have made it out of the building if
I'd declined," he says complacently. "Once you're that
classified, you only get out in a body bag."

"Tell me about it." She wrestles the cork out with a
satisfying pop. "Shit," she says, "I can fix a goddamn
tank, and I still can't work a fucking corkscrew."

"Don't have the balls for it, McMahon," he teases.

"I've got bigger balls than you have, asshole," she
says, coming around into the lounge. "How 'bout I open
this with your head?"

"You would, too."

"Damn straight." She drops down on the cushions beside
him again. "Where were we?"

"Boysenberries. Got any?"

"I have, actually," she says. "I was keeping them for -
you know, afterwards."

"Hybrids for a hybrid, huh?" he says, and she raises a
wry grin. He sobers a little. "There might not be an
afterwards, you know."

"I know." She shrugs. "I only had a few weeks left
anyway. Nothing to lose, right?"

"Right. Still, might be worth eating them now, you
know?"

There's a shift in her expression, so fleeting he could
have imagined it. But he didn't, he's sure of that. A
crack in the veneer, he thinks. You can think you're at
peace with your fate, but all it is is a thin membrane
over a great big ball of fear.

They're too fucking young to die, he thinks. He hasn't
seen enough. Hasn't done enough. Hasn't made love
enough. And even after years in the corps together, he
doesn't really know her, but she was there the very
worst days of his life, and she's so goddamn beautiful.

"Yeah," she says. Pale. Short breaths. "We should. I'll
get them."

He catches her arm. "Hey," he says. "I'm sorry. I didn't
mean to-"

"I know," she says. "It's okay." Starts to get up, but
he tugs her back, tugs her towards him. She leans in,
just enough to let him know she wants him to kiss her,
and he does. Just once, slow and diffident, like it was
their first date and not most likely the final night of
their lives.

She touches his lips, smiles a little, and gets up and
leaves him there.

She comes back with berries in a cut glass bowl, and two
martini glasses on a tray. Dark liquid, a berry in each,
lemon twist on the rim. She sets the tray down on the
hearth beside them.

"It's called a boysenberry kiss," she says, handing him
a glass. "Try it."

He does. The taste fills his senses. Strong and sweet.
Intoxicating. He closes his eyes. It occurs to him that
maybe she tastes like that. That he wants to know before
they die.

"S'good," he says at last. Opens his eyes.

"It's the end of the line, Knowle," she says. "Even if
we survive tomorrow, it'll never be the same. We won't
be the same."

"I know."

"Scared?"

He swallows a little, and nods.

She nods too, as though in agreement. Raises her glass.
"Well," she says. "To hybrids. And kisses."

He touches his glass to hers. "Hybrids and kisses."

They drink, and they kiss.

That's how they spend the final night of their lives.

END

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story assumes Shannon was telling
the truth in NIHT II about when and how she and Knowle
became supersoldiers. Personally, I doubt she was. But
it's an interesting idea to play with, just the same -
what might have prompted these two young, vibrant people
to agree to such a physically and ontologically risky
process. I'd tried to write this scenario several times
in past tense, and it tended to become too angsty, and
it stalled. Present tense, where neither has any real
understanding of what their lives will become, seemed to
save it.

Place the vodka, Chambord, lemon juice and ice in a
cocktail shaker and shake to combine. Strain the mixture
into a chilled martini glass, drop in a boysenberry and
rest a lemon twist on the rim of the glass.

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